All Along
by mlw05
Summary: Sherlock misses nothing, no matter how hard Watson tries.
1. Revelations

If anyone would like to Beta further chapters please PM me (:

**_DISCLAIMER:_**  
**_However much I would like to I do not, in any way, profit from this story and all creative rights and ownership of the characters belong to the BBC._**

**Chapter 1 - Revelations**

"John these are excellent!" Sherlock puffed as he ran purposefully across the busy road as if there were no cars there at all.

We ran into the entrance of 221B Baker Street.

"New clues!" He shouted in exultation as he put the box of the recently attained personal affects ontop of a pile of splayed documents.

"Sherlock?" I leaned against the doorway watching him peer into the cardboard box like a monkey would if it was looking for food. He looked intently at each object, putting them inches from his face and discarding the unsatisfactory items to the floor with a flick of the wrist.

"The excitement of objects still full of mystery and puzzles yet to be discovered" he babbled.

_'It's a wonder he hasn't given himself an __Aneurysm__'_ I thought.

"Sherlock?" I tried to get his attention past his cloud of thoughts. He heard me this time snapping out of his bubble with a blink. He came over to me grabbing me by the shoulders.

"Doesn't it excite you John?" he looked at me like I had come from the box, "It certainly excites me" he grinned.

"Well, that's...quite clear" I paused "But you've missed something"

He raised an eyebrow slightly, cocked his head to the side and took his hands of my shoulders slowly as if I had insulted him. I treasured the expression; you didn't often see Sherlock bewildered at something you had said.

"Do go on John"

"Well..." I started, enjoying the momentary power I had over him, "You're going to need to put those pictures up somewhere aren't you" I asked rhetorically, nodding my head to the walls. They were covered entirely with documents, receipts and pictures.

"I mean, it looks like the Home Office exploded in here" I jested.

"More space..." he trailed off into thought and suddenly ran up the stairs with the documents.

"Sherlock?" I went after him up until his bedroom door, pausing.

"It's ok, you can come in" he shouted from inside.

I pushed the door tentatively. It felt like taboo entering his room, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable and even nervous as I shut the door behind me. He smiled briefly and looked up at me. A silent beat.

"What?" I asked

"Oh, nothing" he picked up some more documents and began taping them to the wall. I caught myself looking at his slender figure as he kneeled on his double bed and stretched upward, his dark suit jacket revealing slithers of porcelian skin.

_'For God's sake John, pull yourself together'_ my throat clenched, I coughed to relieve it. He looked over.

"Hold these for me would you?" he asked returning to face the wall but holding some sheets out. I took them from him. He shuffled back onto the foot of the the bed looking at the wall intently. I got onto the bed in front of him and knelt, leaning up with the sheets. Suddenly he was kneeling behind me his hand on mine.

"No, no, no, here" He said moving it a few millimetres to the left. The touch caused me to flinch slightly. I hoped he wouldn't notice. Unlikely, but I could still hope. I felt his breath on the nape of my neck.

"Keep them there" He knelt back retrieving the tape, he stretched himself over me, his chin nearly touching my cheek. He tore the tape with his teeth and finally taped the pictures to the wall. I was relieved and quickly got off of the bed. He lay down, head at the foot of the bed and flicked his eyes across the wall the opposite end, he clapsed his hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes as if in prayer. I stood there feeling like an idiot, an intruder.

"John!" his urgent and irritated voice breaking the silence making me jump.

"What? What is it?".

His face reflected his tone.

"Shhh!"

"I wasn't-" I whispered

"You were breathing too loud" Sherlock hissed at me. Silence followed for a few seconds. His eyes snapped open. He looked quickly at the wall of photos.

"John" He got up like a shot. "I'm really sorry". Suddenly he threw me onto the bed, straddled me, kissed me and moved his hand underneath my trousers. I was, to put it mildly, shocked.

"Sherlo-" I shouted between kisses.

The door opened and I heard Mrs. Hudson start to speak, immediately stop and shut the door in a hurry. As soon as she was gone he got off of me.

"What the hell was that?" I was furious.

Sherlock stood as if nothing had happened.

"There's sensitive information on this wall John, we can't have Mrs. Hudson seeing it, you know she's a terrible gossip"

"Oh right, right, of course, so the only way to stop that was for you t-to-" I gestured wildly not knowing what to say.

"Yes actually, well, it was that or I punch you, but I'd have to have punched you several times before Mrs. Hudson had seen. Anyway she would have tried to intervene, whereas the other idea only confirmed her suspicions, so even though she is shocked enough to be distracted from the wall her immediate thought is to leave." He paused for breath. "Anyway" he smiled cheekily "I thought you might like it"

"Wh-What An-And that explains why I'm angry does it?"

"You're angry because you have been fighting your feelings for me, and I've just destroyed that"

"How...do you-?"

"Well, firstly you shut the door"

"The door?"

"Yes, you subconsciously didn't want anyone else being in the room, and you didn't want an easy way to escape"

"You said firstly?'

"Well, then there's your cough, it was a catching cough, you're not ill so something else was causing your throat to tighten, most likely strong emotions, typically nerves or the concealment of them. You verbally tried to stop me but you didn't lift a finger meaning you knew you _should_ deny me but you weren't going to", he paused, "Oh, and the pulse in your hand increased the closer I got to you" He continued looking at me for a while.

"What now?" I snapped, his face remained calm.

"You're also angry at me because you think I didn't mean that kiss"

"...You did?"

"Of course I did. If I hadn't I would have thought of something else, it would have taken me longer granted but I'm sure I would have come up with something"

"So when you said at the café?"

"Oh, every ones got to play a little hard to get sometimes right, anyway it worked" I stared at him in disbelief, I then started laughing, it hadn't been that funny but the relief of the situation was being lifted from my mind.

"I'm guessing you have questions" He sat on the bed facing me.

"Just a few"

"Go on" he looked at me with his mysterious grey eyes, today I noticed there was a tint of blue to them, I liked to think it might be due to me.

"How long have you known?"

"Since we first met"

"Wow, I, er, completely failed at concealing that one didn't I. How did you know?"

"You got slightly too angry every time someone suggested we were together, early on when we walked anywhere you always stood on the left side of me so you limped towards me, you've recently started stuttering and generally the fact that you've put up with me for so long without wanting to leave or kill me. Anything else"

"Yeah, um, can you "deduce" my...preferences". He squinted in a thoughtful manner.

"For what?"

"Well...like...kissing"

"Only one way to tell" He placed a hand on my chest, pushed me backward, leaned over me and kissed me. I raised my eyebrows in half-surprise at the dexterity of his lips, although I had always suspected he would be an amazing kisser. He stopped abruptly raising his head.

"Interesting. You like being led, I suppose that's something you've gotten used to, but you like a soft touch, a sign of care, something you've been deprived of" He stopped "No ones shown you affection for a good few years now" he reinforced his point by tracing a long, soft finger across my jaw. I then realised I was crying. Sherlock wiped the tears from my cheek.

"Shhh, It's ok now John" he scooped me up into his arms and held me in a warming embrace. I sniffed as I closed my eyes and rested into him, steadying my breathing. As I did so I breathed in his smell, there was the faint, sweet muskiness of nicotine but a clean surgical smell. The fascinating smell soothed me as well as the feel of his long arms wrapped around me completely. I found myself drifting off to sleep.


	2. A Date

I forgot to add on the previous chapter; this story is set before John asks Sarah on a date but after he has the job.

Thanks to my Beta readers Roo, PrincessNala and Holly Xavier-Diggory for the feedback

**_DISCLAIMER:_**  
**_However much I would like to, I do not, in any way, profit from this story and all creative rights and ownership of the characters belong to the BBC._**

Chapter 2 - A Date

I woke in Sherlock's bed, it was the first night I hadn't dreamt about Afghanistan. I didn't expect Sherlock to be there still, and he wasn't. Even so, my heart sank. I sat up feeling sorry for myself, even though I realised he must have tucked me in, until I saw a note on the foot of the bed. It read; 'Therapist rang. Appointment's at 4. Gone to Scotland Yd. Will text you info & pick up milk on way back. SH x'. Crime solving and milk, so Sherlock. He had put a kiss; such a simple gesture, but he was the kind of person that put thought into what he wrote. I looked at the time; 15:32, Sunday. I had slept very well. Just enough time to have a quick shower, something to eat and grab a taxi.

"Hi John." Ella, my therapist, gave her caring smile. I sat down and smiled back awkwardly.

"So, I finally got to speak to your flat mate," she added.

"Oh God- I mean, um, oh right?" I groaned.

"Yes, he seems very...interesting. He told me quite a bit about you, in fact, I'm not sure you need me," she laughed.

_'That's probably what he was intending,'_I thought.

"So tell me John; how is the flat going?"

"Um, yeah good, I-"

My phone beeped.

"Sorry," I mumbled, "thought I'd turned that off." I had 2 messages. I read them anyway; 'Case solved. Boring conclusion actually. Probably best; Anderson was becoming insufferable. Again. SH x', and then later; 'Booked us a table at Angelo's. 6:30. SH x'.

_'A date? Surely not...'_

"Sherlock?" Ella asked.

"Hmm? No, just a-er mate, yeah."

"Do your mates usually make you blush?" she asked matter-of-factly.

I laughed to conceal my embarrassment. "Tell me about him," she continued.

"Well, he's amazing," I blurted, sounding like an 8 year girl old crushing on her neighbour.

"Do you trust him?"

"Well, I've only known him for, what..." I paused.

"That's not what I asked you."

"Well, yeah, yeah I suppose I do."

She beamed.

"And your limp's gone?"

"Yeah."

"Then I believe you're no longer in need of my services...unless you'd like to keep-"

"Oh, no, no, no," I said, smiling; trying not to sound as keen as I felt.

"I see," she stood up, I followed suit, we shook hands.

"Call me if you need me!" she shouted down the hall as I left.

The taxi ride to the Angelo's was awful; I hadn't been this nervous since signing up to the army. I walked in surprised to see no one but Angelo the Head Chef.

"Ah Mr. Watson. Your table is over here," he led me to the far back of the restaurant. The table was very secluded. Sherlock sat waiting, looking at the menu.

"Hi John," he smiled.

"Hi Sherlock," I managed not to stutter. I took my coat off and sat down.

"I'll get a candle," Angelo commented as he ambled off.

"Him and his bloody candle," I laughed, Sherlock laughed too. I relaxed a bit, picking up my menu.

"I told Ella you didn't need her," he said triumphantly.

"Sorry?"

"She let you go early."

"Oh. Yes, she mentioned your...discussion."

"I'm more qualified than she is to evaluate you," he added, his annoyance escaping. I smiled and raised my eyebrows.

"What?" he enquired.

"Oh, nothing, it's just that, if I didn't know you better, I'd say it sounds like your trying to protect me."

"Don't be ridiculous John," he said, adding a smile afterwards.

Angelo returned with a lit tea light candle.

"Thanks." I smiled sarcastically and rolled my eyes. He took our orders._ 'Sherlock eats?' _I was amazed; in all the time I had known him, I hadn't seen him eat a thing. He was usually fueled by nicotine, caffeine and insanity. Our meals arrived, Sherlock had a Full English, despite the fact it was evening.

"Hmm, Sherlock?" I asked mid-meal.

"Yes?"

"Why is there no one else in here?"

"I paid Angelo to make sure no one else was in here so we could have some privacy. I don't often have free time I spend with other people; I didn't want anyone else to ruin it."

"Oh, oh ok."

We discussed the previous case until we had both finished eating.

Angelo brought over a large bottle of expensive looking red wine.

"Jesus, how much did you pay him?" I laughed.

Angelo poured both of us large glasses and left.

"To interesting cases," Sherlock toasted. I smiled and raised my glass too. After a few glasses of wine we left.

We walked down the wet, street lit pavements of London. I felt a bit tipsy and Sherlock probably was, but was trying to hide it. A group of 40-something skinheads were coming towards us on the opposite side of the street.

"Fags!" one shouted drunkenly, making his way over to us.

_'Great,'_I sighed.

He stood in front of us blocking our path. He laughed and repeated himself; "Haha, look at the fags."

"Oh, please expand your vocabulary," Sherlock retaliated.

"Shut up fag," he blurted, obviously having no idea what 'vocabulary' meant. Sherlock looked him up and down.

"Let me guess, un-educated, un-employed, single, alcoholic, woman-beater...oh, and you still live with your mother." The accused man looked at him angrily.

"Dude," said one of his mates, "Is that true?"

Sherlock turned to me.

"Bit too much?"

"Little bit."

The man swung a punch at Sherlock, who ducked and gut-punched him. The man gasped, meanwhile his swing carried on and I felt a thick, jagged ring cut into my lip. Sherlock grabbed my arm and pulled me down an alley. I was still amazed at how he had remembered every street. We ran until the shouts of the men grew quieter as we lost them. We arrived home; I was feeling exhausted and light-headed. My lip was bleeding quite considerably. The adrenaline wasn't helping. I could just see I had stained my shirt; my vision was blurring. Sherlock lay me down on the sofa and removed my shirt.

"Blood doesn't stain skin," he remarked, as if I needed him to apologise. He brought a tea towel in from the kitchen. I grimaced clutching my mouth.

"Don't use that! It's for the dishes, get some loo roll or something." He looked at me with disbelief but returned with loo roll and began dabbing my face. "I sbee bhy you beed bomeone mebibally bained wib you bow," I managed through the loo roll being wrapped around my lips. I didn't tell him that I was used to much worse pain. He lifted some tissue up, my chin and most of my lips were clean now. He licked across the cut.

"Natural antiseptic," he added. I should have been creeped out, but the contact sent shivers down my spine. He turned to bin the remaining tissue; I caught him looking at my now exposed upper half for a fraction of a second.

"Are you alright now John?"

The pain had faded to an ignorable level. The army had at least given me that.

"Much better now, thank you Nurse Sherlock," I grinned. He smiled, sitting down next to me, tracing a finger down my cheek.

"I'll shout 'duck' next time," he mused, leaning into me, millimetres from me. I connected the kiss. He was being gentle in case I still hurt, Sherlock could be kind when he wanted to be. I moved my hands to his hair lightly fondling the thick curls. He reached a hand behind me and stroked down my spine from neck to trouser line. The sensation jolted me down every disc. Of course, he would know every erogenous zone and sensitive spot. He removed his suit jacket and ripped his shirt, buttons flying across the dark room. He took his blue scarf and wrapped it around my neck, using it to pull me closer to him. He then straddled me like he had the night before. He raised his head and upper half and looked into my eyes. His considerable bulge was pressed into my hips. His body was amazing; he was certainly lanky but his features were almost elfin. His pale skin was practically hairless except for a snail trail of dark hair going from his navel downwards. I was practically the opposite of him; I was certainly bulkier but it pleased me to see I was more muscular than he was. Although he was certainly not exempt of muscle; there were subtle shadows around his pectorals and abdominals accenting the muscle there. I was also aware I had more body hair than him, although it stood out less, with my hair being lighter and my skin being darker than his. He noticed the unusual scar I have across my torso; shrapnel damage from a roadside IED bomb.

"Hmm..." he was obviously intrigued by its shape. He traced a finger over the sensitive scar tissue. He looked up at me. I motioned a zip over my mouth.

"I thought you liked challenges?" I teased.

"Biology isn't my area John, you know that," he stated "that's why I keep you around," he paused "among other reasons." He smiled cheekily.

"I'm still not telling you," I continued. He moved a hand to my crotch and stroked me through my trousers and boxers in exactly the right place, I gasped and dug my nails into the sofa cushion. He stopped abruptly.

"Oh really?" he grinned evilly. I scowled at him.

"I've have had torture training you know."

"I am aware," he stated "but I reckon I could break you."


	3. Domestic

Thanks to my Beta readers Roo, PrincessNala and Holly Xavier-Diggory for the feedback

**_DISCLAIMER:_**

**_However much I would like to, I do not, in any way, profit from this story and all creative rights and ownership of the characters belong to the BBC._**

**Chapter 3 - Domestic**

Monday mornings were always strange; I had to be up at 6 to get to work, which meant I actually saw Sherlock before he went gallivanting off anywhere. I came downstairs to him eating cereal, reading something on my laptop. He was half wrapped in a towel, hair wet. A somewhat arousing sight.

"Hmm, there you are," he murmured, mouth half-full.

"Yes, I haven't gone anywhere," I joked, trying to not look at the water dripping down his pale skin.

"Look at this," he pointed at the main article on the page; 'Murder on the bus way!'

"When was that?" I asked, making myself some breakfast to distract me.

"3 this morning," he paused. "I give it..." he checked the time, "half an hour before they ask for my help."

"Well, I'm going to work." I picked my stuff up. He looked at me confused. "What?"

"You're going to work?"

"Yes...you know, the magic place where the money comes from." He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I mean, you'd rather be around hypochondriacs with a cold than catching criminals?"

"Well of course not, but how else are we going to live? You don't exactly have a steady income; anyway I'm late, bye." I left knowing that he wouldn't understand my guilt and need to repay him.

I hadn't fallen asleep and it was nearing the end of the day; I was doing well. I took a mouthful of coffee and buzzed the intercom. I heard muffled shouting through the door and suddenly Sherlock burst in, shutting the door quickly behind him to the shouts of the receptionist and my patients.

"Hi John," he smiled, speaking as if the situation were perfectly normal.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I came to get you."

Just then the receptionist, obviously having become too impatient, hurried in.

"Dr. Watson! Are you alright?"

"There's a dead body I want you to look at," Sherlock continued.

The receptionist gave a bewildered look towards him.

"Doctor?" she repeated.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Come on John," Sherlock spoke impatiently.

I checked my watch, there was still an hour left of my shift.

"Well it's not going anywhere is it? I've got an hour to do still."

"Take the rest of the day off, they won't get rid of you; they need you. Anyway," he smiled knowingly, "I reckon they'll let you go."

"Well, I would love to Sherlock, but I've taken every day off this week. I have to work sometime, and if you wouldn't y'know, mind, I've got annoyed patients waiting."

I saw that the receptionist was still at the door, with no intention of leaving us alone. Sherlock stopped fidgeting. He looked at me inquisitively for a while and then spoke.

"Am I embarrassing you John?"

"What? Of course not I just-"

"You keep looking at her to check if she's leaving and you won't look me in the eye. Do you not want anyone to know we work together?" he continued, his voice getting louder. He sounded genuinely angry. My cheeks burned; I hadn't wanted them to know.

"Oh, and I bet you want them to believe that your recent fatigue and those marks on your neck had absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever." I knew he wouldn't be able to resist leaving it at that.

I saw the receptionist's eyes widen and the patients outside, who had been murmuring their annoyances, immediately stopped. I looked at the carpet wishing it would swallow me up. He had only done it because I wouldn't run off with him at the click of his fingers.

"Sherlock, please leave," I tried to keep my voice calm; "I'll help out later."

He glared at me and strode out, pushing past everyone. Sarah put her head round the door.

"John, did you want to take the rest of the day off? I can deal with the rest of the patients if you like?" I sighed; he had been right. Again.

"I suppose. Thank you Sarah." I picked up my stuff and walked, head down, through the throng of people who were staring at me. Sherlock was waiting at the end of the corridor leaning against the wall coolly.

"Told you," he said. I tried to look as pissed off as I could as he walked next to me. "It got you out didn't it?" I didn't reply. "It's not working y'know."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Pretending that you'd rather be in there than with me." Why did he always have to be right?

"This body better be bloody worth it," I grumbled.

We arrived at a cordoned off area of a bus station. A single bus was surrounded by officers. Sherlock brushed past them stopping at Sgt. Donovan.

"Evening Freak," as close to a welcome as he was going to get. She glanced at me "I see you brought your pet with you."

"Where's Lestrade?"

"I'm in charge today, Freak," she smiled triumphantly.

"God help us," he moaned. "Wait. So, why am I here?"

"We can't find anything at all about who she is or how she died." There was a pause.

"Ohoho brilliant," he chuckled, "_You_, Sergeant Sally Donavon, is asking _me _for help?"

"Just get on with it Freak," she snapped and left briskly. He flashed a grin at me obviously feeling smug having won her over. I didn't return the smile. I was still annoyed; annoyed at the fact that at least half of my patients would never want to see me again, annoyed that Sarah was now backing off me entirely, but mainly annoyed because he was right; I did prefer being with him.

"You're annoyed," he pointed out.

"Oh, well done."

"As I said; they're not going to fire you."

"The problem is Sherlock, that unlike you, I actually give a toss about what people think."

"I fail to see how caring about their opinion improves anything."

"Oh you don't do you? Well then my opinion obviously doesn't matter to you then does it? I'm just another simpleton to be ignored."

"That's different-you're different."

I sighed; I didn't like arguing with him.

"Whatever, let's get on with it."

He went over to the dead woman and studied her in her seat. As I waited in silence my mind subconsciously drifted back to the previous night;

_"I reckon I could break you". _The memory made me shiver had followed his comment by building and stopping his hand movements to the point where I had snapped and begged him to finish me off. I told him where the scar was from and-

"John?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, I, er..."

"No time for reminiscing John," he winked knowingly, "Cause of death?" He nodded towards the body. I took a closer look. No bullet holes, no bleeding, no bruises.

"Sure it's not natural causes?"

"Have you _seen_ the way she's dressed?" I didn't ask.

There must be something subtle I was missing.

"I'll fill you in on what I've found whilst you look shall I?" Sherlock suggested.

"Sure."

"Ok, she's on a Bus, but there are car keys in her pocket and a car park ticket from today, so she would have no need to be on the bus. So I'm guessing she was killed elsewhere and dumped here. Her car keys are for an eco car, she's from out of town, she's wearing an eco charity wristband and there's an eco charity rally near where she parked today. I'd say she was an environmental activist. Her income would be low and she's in her early 20's, she's not at university so she's probably got a flat share. The background picture on her phone is of her and another girl; her flatmate. No boyfriend there then," he paused, "Oh, and she's French."

"French?"

"Yes. French."

"But how can you tell?"

"By her accent."

"Her accent?"

"Yes."

"But...she's dead, how do you know what her accent sounds like?"

"Her answer machine," he waggled the phone.

"Oh, right..."

"She's recently moved here too; her contact book has two home numbers still and ones marked as new. The whole list is full names; most common appearing is the surname 'Blanc', obviously family. She doesn't abbreviate to 'Mum' or 'Dad'; she wasn't emotionally attached to them, why? Because they're still living in Paris. Where she's from, if I remember the area code of the phone numbers correctly. So, we need to check incoming flights from Paris within the last 2 months of a woman travelling alone aged 20-25 with the surname Blanc."

"Wow, that was brilliant, just brilliant."

"Anything on the body?"

"Nothing majorly obvious but I did spot this," I pointed to a tiny puncture mark on her forearm. "Drugs maybe?" I asked

"Could be, we'll wait for the Toxicology results. In the meantime we're going to talk to the parents, I have a feeling they're involved in this."

"But I thought you said the parents were in Paris."

"Yes."

"We're going to Paris?"

"Problem?"

"Well, no, that's...fine."

"Good." he smiled.


	4. Paris

Thanks to my Beta readers Roo, PrincessNala and Holly Xavier-Diggory for the feedback

This chapter is M-rated

**_DISCLAIMER:_**  
**_However much I would like to, I do not, in any way, profit from this story and all creative rights and ownership of the characters belong to the BBC._**

**Chapter 4 - Paris**

We arrived at Stansted. We were planning on staying for a week in a hotel in Paris. I say we; this was all part of the plan that Sherlock had devised and informed me of on the taxi drive there.

"Are you sure about this Sherlock?" I said, taking in the reality of the situation.

"Of course I'm sure John. This is the perfect opportunity; Mr. Blanc hasn't met these 2 new business partners of his yet, he has no idea what they look like. If we pose as them we can get much more information from him than if we blundered around like normal. Anyway, he's a very powerful man, he's probably got people in airport security, and they'd suspect us straight away."

"Yeah, but did they have to be a couple?"

"It could be years before we get an opportunity like this again John, stop being so proud. Now, do you remember the details?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Yes," he'd asked at least once every half hour. "I'm Richard Forester, born in Bristol, living in London. I have a Masters in business and management. I've been your partner for 5 years and your PA for 4,"

"And I am?"

"You're Luc Dupont, born in Calais, moved to London in 2000. You're CEO of a small shipping company you've been building up for 8 years that's just started making big profits this year."

"Good. Excellent."

"So, what actually happens to these guys whilst we pretend to be them for a week?"

"Mycroft volunteered to take care of it." I blinked.

"God help them."

Finally we entered airport security. I went through first; there was no problem with the fake passport supplied by Mycroft at all. I picked my luggage up on the other side and looked for Sherlock.

_'Remember John,'_ I recalled, _'Subtlety and secrecy are absolutely key to this case.'_

"Excuse me Mr...Dupont?" I heard a security attendant behind me say, "Could you please explain to me what this was doing in your luggage?" I turned around to see Sherlock restrained, the attendant holding a skull in front of him.

"It's a friend. Well, when I say friend..."

"I see...could you come with us please." The attendant beckoned towards an interview room. So much for subtlety and secrecy then. I stood there wondering what to do when Sherlock reappeared with his luggage from the interview room.

"What happened?" I asked urgently, "Please tell me you didn't knock them out?"

"I was going to, but I just waved the badge around and kicked up a fuss about calling their superiors and they let me go." I laughed. We made our way to boarding. The flights Mycroft had had set up were first class and I marvelled at the luxury as we were shown to our seats.

"Wow," I gasped.

"Remember," Sherlock whispered, "as soon as the plane touches down, we must start calling each other by our new identities; practice makes perfect."

We sat down and it wasn't long before I fell asleep in the comfortable chair.

"Richard?" A blurred voice. I felt someone nudge me to full consciousness. I grumbled.

"Sh- I mean Luc," I stammered.

"We've landed."

We made our way off of the plane. Sherlock made his way over to a flight attendant.

"Désolé," he spoke fluently, "pourriez-vous me dire ce qu'est le temps? J'ai oublié de le changer."

"Quart après 6 monsieur."

"Merci." Sherlock changed the time on his watch.

I stood agape.

"Since when did you speak French?"

"I learnt on the plane."

"You learnt the whole French language on the hour and a half flight?"

"Yes, well I was brought up in France wasn't I?" He really was quite extraordinary. "Let's see," he flicked out his phone, "I wonder which hotel Mycroft owns in Paris." Seconds later he barked; "Ha, The Ritz, I should've known."

"The Ritz? You are kidding right?" Sherlock shook his head still tapping away at his phone.

We called a taxi from the taxi bay and jumped in.

"L'hôtel Ritz s'il vous plaît," Sherlock directed, his accent perfect, he almost sounded, dare I say it, sexy. I gulped the lump from my throat. It was obvious when we were near The Ritz; the giant monument of Napoleon (as I was later told) jutted into the sky in the centre of Vendôme Square. The Square was a huge expanse of paved ground covered in classic style 3-lamp black lampposts and surrounding it was the uncomprehendible enormity of The Ritz. I was stunned. I numbly took my luggage.

"Merci." Sherlock thanked the driver.

"We're staying a whole _week_ here?"

"I don't know why you're gawping at it like that, it's so...frilly."

"Sorry, I'd forgotten, not even The Ritz is good enough for Sh-" he shot me a look, "...for you."

"Hold my hand." Sherlock suddenly said, taking my hand.

"Hmm, what?"

"We're partners remember," he hissed.

I blushed as we walked into the foyer, but secretly also slightly proud. The foyer was stunning; the room was carpeted in deep crimson with ornate gold and cream walls, a glittering chandelier dripped glass from the ceiling and a range of thick, gold framed paintings hung from the walls.

"Bonjour messieurs." A dark haired man who was dressed in a rich, navy suit came over to us, "Do you have a reservation?"

"Er, Forester and Dupont." I answered as Sherlock had decided to wander off and peruse a painting.

"Ah monsieur," I heard a woman direct to Sherlock, "You enjoy the Van Gogh?" (She pronounced it as 'Go').

"It's...interesting." I could tell he was grinding his teeth.

"It certainly is," she continued, "My favourite of his works, and I know them _all_. It's 100% genuine, I tested it myself." She smiled cockily. She may as well have asked for a game of chess.

"Are you sure about that?" I watched as he looked at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Of course I am sure! I know Van Go as if he were my own father," the flustered French woman retaliated.

"Then you're aware of his techniques?"

"Every single one of them."

"Well then if you look at this stroke right here," he pointed to a part of the painting that looked exactly the same as the rest, "you can see it is a stroke he would never have used." The woman stood there stunned.

"Oh, and by the way it's pronounced Van Hoch," he said as he walked away from her. He just couldn't help himself could he? The receptionist returned with a bellboy, also dressed in a navy suit, he went to take our luggage. Sherlock held his possessively and the bellboy decided against taking it.

"This way please," we were directed to an elevator. The operator looked through us as if we weren't there and prodded a button. The man then coldly showed us to our room. The room was amazing. It was similar to the foyer but instead of the floor being a deep crimson there were several soft chairs, of that colour, parked gracefully on the floor. The floor, as well as the ceiling, was a creamy off-white, the wallpaper white and gold. The bed was, of course, king sized; its duvets looked irresistible.

"Now_ this_," I put my luggage down and landed on the bed, "is what I call luxury."

"He's such a show off." Sherlock grimaced as he picked up random items around the room in distaste. I rolled my eyes.

Sherlock's phone beeped. He frowned. "Speak of the Devil." I sat up.

"What's he said?"

"Apparently our visit hasn't gone unnoticed by Blanc. He's got a couple of men watching us 24/7 from an opposite room."

"So, what does that mean?"

"It means Watson," he lay next to me, looking straight into my eyes, "that we have to be convincing and fast." I blushed.

"I, er-"

"Don't worry," he moved on top of me, "Dupont's the dominant one." He grabbed my wrists, pulled them above my head and pinned me there. His face was close enough for me to feel his hot breath teasing my lips. He leaned in and touched my lips with a feather soft touch that caught my breath. He kissed again, this time harder; he then bit my bottom lip slightly. I breathed, realising I had forgotten. He placed soft kisses on my chin and then down my neck making me shiver, his hair tickling my chin. He pointed to my shirt.

"Off," he stated simply.

"Yes sir." I removed it quickly. He continued kissing steadily down my chest and my navel. He pointed at my trousers.

"I do hate repeating myself." I laughed and undid the belt pulling them down. He moved his hand to my boxer shorts and traced his fingers around the waistband pushing it up painfully slowly. I moaned. "Patience my dear Watson."

"That's easy for you to say," I mumbled.

"The anticipation is half the pleasure," he whispered, his hand finally taking hold. His fingertips were cool but his palm was warm as he stroked expertly. I tried to make a mental note to check his circulation, but what was left of my concentration was shattered when I felt his warm mouth enclose me. I gasped.

"God..." I gripped into the luxury bed not caring if it tore. He alternated from mouth to hand.

"Do you think they're enjoying the show?" he whispered into my ear. I had forgotten about the men, but I didn't care, all I cared about at the moment was that Sherlock was giving me more pleasure than I'd thought was imaginable.

"Oh Jesus..." I whispered as he went faster. "Please," I begged, "don't stop."

"Don't tempt me Watson," he smirked. Thankfully he didn't and he swapped one last time, the change sent me over the edge as climax overcame me. I writhed at the intensity of pleasure which he had caused, but he maintained his position until I relaxed. He raised his head, licking his lips, looking vastly pleased with himself.

"Yes, I think that was convincing enough."

I was still out of breath as I lay there, sweating, naked. He lay next to me one hand behind his neck; with the other he passed me my boxers. I put them on. He then reached down and took my hand, stroking each digit intently. His phone beeped, breaking the silence completely.

"Ugh, you'd think that idiot had just discovered texting."

"I didn't know Anderson had your number."

"No, it's Mycroft," he chucked me his phone. "Read it for me would you." I rolled my eyes.

"False alarm boys, sorry..."

"Ugh, typical Mycroft, ridiculously incompetent."

"You mean there weren't any men there?"

"Apparently not."

"I'm gonna kill him," I muttered under breath.

"Anything else?"

"...However I do hear your toxicology results are completed."

"Ooh, excellent," he grabbed the phone, dialling and putting it on loudspeaker. "Lestrade, I hear the toxicology results are in?"

"How did you know? I've only just got them myself."

"I have my sources."

"Well anyway, tox came back clean, nothing there at all. Looks like natural causes to me."

"Well it isn't. Get me an autopsy."

"Right. Oh, hang on; Donovan wants a word."

"Here we go," Sherlock muttered. "Hi Sally!" he shouted faux-cheerily.

"What the hell do you think you're-?"

"Bye Sally!" he said hanging up.

"What _is_ her problem?" I asked.

"She always loved Paris," he stated simply. "We should probably get some sleep."

"Oh, ok. I'll get the spare duvet."

"Don't be ridiculous John. Have you seen the size of this bed?" It was true; it would fit 7 people quite easily. It felt really awkward getting ready for bed, I was nervous. It was stupid, I had gone to war and _this_-_he_ was making _me_ nervous.

"Don't be nervous John; I won't do anything out of order." He was sitting in the bed in his pyjamas with a couple of thick Sudoku books, propping his chin up with a pen.

"Got enough books there?"

"Apparently this is good for boredom."

"Is it working?"

"How many books are you meant to finish in an hour?" he asked obliviously.

"Er...just keep at it." I thought it was better that he was occupied; the Ritz's walls were too nice too suffer.


End file.
